He became the designated driver for every agonizing oncology appointment. He sat rigidly in the uncomfortable plastic chairs during the endless hours of chemotherapy drips. He scoured the city at midnight for the precise brand of ginger ale that settled my churning stomach. On the nights when the steroids and the terror kept sleep at bay, he sat cross-legged on my bedroom floor, marathon-watching terrible 80s comedies until the sun rose.
When the fear threatened to pull me under, he listened. He didn’t offer empty platitudes while scrolling through emails on his phone. He didn’t mentally drift toward the garage or the open road. He just sat there and held the weight of my terror with me.
In the darkest chapter of my life, I finally discovered what it felt like to have a father.
One evening, after a particularly brutal round of radiation had left me hollowed out and shivering, we were huddled on the sofa watching a stand-up special. A ridiculous punchline caught me off guard, and I laughed so hard my aching ribs protested.
Dad chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. But as the laughter subsided, he turned his head, his dark eyes studying my face with a profound, heavy sorrow.
